


don't always say

by sabinelagrande



Series: Sundown [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Is a Good Bro, Established Relationship, Existential Crisis, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 21:16:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19912321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: Crowley is a bit down.





	don't always say

For someone not as well versed in the art as Aziraphale, Crowley is hard to read. His aesthetic- his louche, serpentine manner, the eyes that are a puzzle even without sunglasses, the way he drawls out his sentences- is a lot to deal with, and it's taken Aziraphale centuries to really get the hang of it.

But right now, Aziraphale doesn't think anyone would miss Crowley's disquiet. He drapes himself over chairs in the same way, but his heart's not in it. Aziraphale, keenly attuned, sees past it, sees himself in it.

Crowley is alone, as Aziraphale is alone.

They have each other, but some days, Aziraphale feels keenly the fact that they only have each other. He feels the loss of Heaven like a piece of him scooped out. He sees that same desolation in Crowley's manner; Hell is, well, Hell, but Crowley only ended up where he was because of peer pressure, which requires having peers, ones Crowley once liked. Instead they are adrift, with only themselves and the humanity that they've thrown in with, and humans make terrible friends.

Aziraphale is thinking about this even though he's not currently with Crowley; it sticks in his head, follows him around. His impulse, for multiple reasons, is to try and fix it, to smooth Crowley out and comfort him. He's not doing this at the moment, out for a walk instead, which was supposed to clear his head and is, as you have seen, not working. 

He passes by the window of a shop he passes regularly, giving it only a brief glance. He gets a few steps away and stops, his brain catching up to what he's just seen.

Aziraphale rushes into the shop and buys it immediately, even though it was part of a display and not actually for sale.

Back at the bookshop, Crowley is lounging insouciantly, in a way that doesn't fool Aziraphale. "Hi," he says when Aziraphale enters. He looks Aziraphale over. "What've you got behind your back?"

"I was just thinking," Aziraphale says, and Crowley's eyebrows go up at his tone. "You are a demon-"

"What gave it away?" Crowley says.

"And you torture people, do you not?" Aziraphale says. "Consensually, of course, these days."

Crowley shrugs. "Everybody's got to find some fun on a Saturday night."

"I assure you that it's very fun, at least for me," Aziraphale says. "But you lack something every self-respecting demonic torturer has."

"An inferiority complex?" Crowley offers. "An axe to grind, sometimes literally?"

Aziraphale takes his hand from behind his back, brandishing his prize. It's a rod about a foot long, of metal construction, splitting into three prongs at one end. Each of the prongs is capped with a triangular point, painted red.

Crowley takes one look at the pitchfork and bursts out laughing.

Aziraphale breaks out into a grin as Crowley doubles over. He laughs so hard he falls out of his chair, and it's music to Aziraphale's ears. It's wholehearted, full-throated laughter, completely genuine, and Aziraphale's heart mends, just a little bit.

"Oh fuck," Crowley says, wiping his eyes as he pulls himself back into his chair. "I needed that."

"I thought it might cheer you up," Aziraphale says, handing Crowley the pitchfork.

"What makes you think I need cheering?" Crowley says, fiddling with his new toy in preference to looking at him.

"You've just seemed a bit down," Aziraphale says, because it feels easier than laying it out, telling Crowley that he knows intimately what Crowley's feeling, giving him the chance to get away. Crowley's bullheaded sometimes, but he's not stupid, and he knows that Aziraphale feels lost too. "I just wanted to see you smile."

"I smile a bit," Crowley says, standing up and kissing his cheek. "Mostly around you. You're an awful influence."

"Oh yes, just the worst," Aziraphale says.

"Luckily, bad influences are some of my favorite things," Crowley says, putting his free hand on Aziraphale's hip. "Don't know what I'd do without you, angel."

Aziraphale doesn't know what to say, how to form what's in his head into the right sentence; his heart hurts but feels whole at the same time. He feels so fiercely loyal to Crowley, a thing tied up in the Arrangement and the other arrangement they have, and to hear him say that hits him where he lives.

He kisses Crowley instead, letting that say everything. 

It goes on for some time before they part; Crowley doesn't go far, giving him a smile before schooling his expression in something a little more sexy.

"I hope you know that you've made a grave error," Crowley says, backing him up against his desk as he twirls the pitchfork between his fingers.

"And what is that?" Aziraphale asks.

"You gave a demon a weapon but came unarmed," Crowley says, his thigh insinuated between Aziraphale's. "You've brought about your own ruin, angel."

"Oh no, anything but that," Aziraphale says coyly. "But let me take off my coat before you ruin me, I've only just cleaned it."

"Yeah, alright then," Crowley says, letting him up, and Aziraphale sheds his coat and waistcoat. "Good to be ruined now?"

"Utterly," Aziraphale says, and Crowley is on him again.


End file.
